


don't leave me hangin' (on the telephone)

by tyrsdayschild



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Secret Santa, Wrong Number AU, the intrinsic eroticism of welding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tyrsdayschild/pseuds/tyrsdayschild
Summary: Logan, an aimless mercenary, gets a misdial from an absolutely infuriating stranger. Why can't he bring himself to hang up?Part of Scogan Secret Santa, for Oak.
Relationships: Logan (X-Men)/Scott Summers
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39
Collections: Scogan Secret Santa 2020





	don't leave me hangin' (on the telephone)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [0akdown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/0akdown/gifts).



It’d a been a long life, even if Logan only remembered the half of it. More than forty years, since he’d woken up in the woods after being shot by a hunter. He’d gone round the carousel of secret services, starting in Canada, then loaned down south, over seas then back again, laying low and drifting a bit, before giving up that half life and managing to carve out some autonomy for himself as an “independent contractor”.

There was a new operation that had started up in New York- quasi-governmental, under no one’s purview in particular, and hard up for more muscle after the catastrophe with the helicarriers in D.C. Looking back on his life, of all the job’s he’d taken, this was probably the least objectionable, and with better perks than most. He’d had to double back to his bolt hole in Michigan, near the Canadian border, to pick up his truck and drive it in to the city. It was a ten hour drive, total- or at least, it should’ve been.

Logan felt his phone vibrating in his back pocket. He cussed slightly under his breath as he shifted awkwardly in his seat to reach it. He slammed the horn once to vent his frustration as he accepted the call.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on my way,” he swore at Stark, “I made the mistake of trying to take the GW, and a bunch of rioters have stopped traffic for half-a-fuckin’-hour already- whining about that fuckin’ hash in Sokovia, by the way- what the hell do they care, Jesus, bet half these ignorant bastards couldn’t find it on a map-“ he carried on blowing off steam, reading off an especially insulting sign about Stark in particular, and realized that Stark was uncharacteristically quiet. He should’ve gotten a rise out of him by now- hell, he should’ve been unceremoniously talked over five sentences ago. He pulled the phone away from his ear, and saw an unfamiliar number on the screen.

“The hell are you?” he asked.

“Wrong number, obviously,” the voice on the other end of the line said, “But fuck the Avengers, by the way.”

“Hey, fuck you buddy!” Logan snapped.

“You realize cheering on an extrajudicial hit squad is not what the kids would call a ‘good look’, right?”

“You say that like a judicial hit squad would be any better,” Logan said, “And w-they’re not a ‘hit squad’.”

“That entire team is just the dregs of the military-industrial complex, and at least half of them are literal assassins. Shoe fits. And no, a judicial hit squad wouldn’t be any better-“

“-someone’s gotta deal with meta humans and goddamn rogue tech, might as well be-“

“-and when you think of how absolutely criminally wasteful Stark’s use of rare earth minerals to make his legion of death bots was- to say nothing of the death suits he makes on an average day-“

They went back and forth- Logan was pissed at the snarky bastard, but at least being pissed at a specific person he could yell at was good distraction from being pissed at a crowd of rowdy art school drop outs he absolutely couldn’t jump out of his truck and put the fear of God into- and Logan was pissed when he heard a beep, indicating an incoming call. He pulled his phone away from his ear, the stranger’s preachy monotone fading, and he saw it was Rogers.

“Listen, the call I was _actually_ expecting is coming through,” Logan said, “But do _not_ think you’ve won because I’m hanging up on you.”

“I don’t think-“ and Logan cut him off as he accepted Rogers’ call.

“Yeah, I’m coming in,” Logan said.

“We can see you’re stuck in the stopped traffic on the bridge,” Rogers said, “Figured I might as well read you in on the next mission while we wait.”

Logan tunes in- or part of him does, anyway, some part of his brain could run one of these ops in his sleep, for reasons that he doesn’t want to think to hard about- but his blood is still boiling, thinking about the wrong number.

Hours later, he’s been issued some stupid-ass not-Kevlar body suit to put on- Logan told Stark that if he anything he wore could hold a conversation, he’d skin him like a cat, so it’s mercifully low tech, even if it’s definitely going to chafe- and he pulled the phone out of his pocket as he went to change. He fumbled through the recent calls menu, manages not to redial the asshole, and the messenger app opens. Logan hates texting in the same way he hated Telex, only more so.

_the hell gets wrong numbers anymore anyways_

_New phone, who’s this?_

Logan wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm or a genuine explanation. He exited out of the messenger, opened up the camera. Took a picture of his hand, flipping the bird. He went back to the text thread between him and the asshole and spent a frustrating two minutes tapping things randomly before he found the option to send him the picture.

_When was the last time you cleaned under your nails?_

That thrum of anger was back. Logan bared his teeth to himself. He reopened the camera app, held his half-clawed hand nails up to the lens- thought about baring his actual claws, but it seemed excessive even to him, and it probably wasn’t the best policy to be outing himself as a mutant to a total stranger- and thought better of taking the photo. He scratched the inside of his nostril, smirked, and refocused the camera. A little more confidently, he sent the photo in reply.

Logan had only been scouted by the Avengers for their new HYDRA hunting mandate about a week before the shitshow in Sokovia went down- he still wasn’t too familiar with the players on the team. An hour later he was riding out with them in a Quinjet wishing, as he often did when working with mercenaries in the past, that they’d just decide whether to play this as Just Professionals or a frat.

The asshole hadn’t responded to the picture by the time he’d had to leave his phone in a locker. He wasn’t disappointed at all.

It was a few days later, Logan’s phone buzzed. There was no preview of the message, meaning it was an image. He unlocked the screen, and found a rather pixelated and oddly proportioned image of some graffiti.

_NO BOMBS NO DRONES STARK STAY HOME_

Logan double checked the phone number, and pecked out a return message.

_still thinkin bout me huh_

Logan had no particular desire to defend Stark’s honor, and wasn’t sure if he was more irritated by memories of the asshole’s self-righteous tone of voice, or the fact that _Stark_ of all people made a stranger think of him.

It was a few days later, wandering through Midtown, Logan spotted a particularly saccharine poster affixed to the memorial for the Chitauri attack. Stark’s armor swooning on some rubble like a particularly metallic Pieta, Rogers standing above him, shield upraised, a doe-eyed Hulk cradling a small child beside, glitter paint FOREVER PROUD written above them. He pulled his phone out and snapped a pic, sending it to the asshole.

They went back and forth like that over the next few weeks, one or the other sending a picture or a short message every few days. Logan started to think of The Asshole in capitals, as a proper name. The Avengers certainly wasn’t his first rodeo, but it was definitely the most high profile- he’d done his best to keep a low profile, but the possibility of ending up on a kid’s t-shirt was definitely a new and unwelcome threat. Texting was a good distraction in between missions, and he got a kick out of figuring out what buttons to press to get a rise out of The Asshole. They’d initially kept to the Avengers, but Logan followed his hunches and pretty soon had worked out that The Asshole hated misspelled signs, bad kerning, any number of disgusting things he could take pictures of around the city. The Asshole wasn’t nearly so good at it as Logan, but every so often- maybe once a week- he’d manage to set Logan’s blood to boiling with just a few words.

It was on one of those occasions, after a bad mission, after Logan had taken a scalding hot shower so long it had turned frigid and downed a fifth of vodka in one long, unpleasant pull, about as drunk as he was capable of getting, that Logan called, rather than sending a reply.

The Asshole didn’t pick up. Swearing, Logan redialed, then dialed again.

“What’s your problem?” The Asshole asked as he answered.

“Hey bub, what’s _your_ problem,” Logan slurred.

“Believe it or not, not you,” The Asshole said, “Are you drunk?”

“Not for long,” Logan grumbled, “You started this. You and your fuckin’- wrong number and your- why the hell did you text me, anyhow?”

“ _You’re_ the one who texted first, after the call,” The Asshole said, an annoyed whine tinging his voice.

“Well why the hell do you keep responding?”

“Does this seriously bother you?” The Asshole asked, “Because it doesn’t- the shit you send me, it doesn’t really- it’s nice to be bothered about things that don’t really matter, you know?”

Yes, Logan did know, actually. He knew exactly what The Asshole meant by that. That didn’t do anything to calm him down in that moment, though.

“I can’t fucking stand you,” Logan said. It didn’t come out as angry as he would’ve liked it. “God, texting, I’d almost forgotten how grating your voice is.”

The Asshole gave a snorting sort of laugh- oh god, another irritating thing Logan would have stuck in his head for the next month- and said, “Yeah, I think if I knew you in real life I’d rather stand in the snow than be alone in a room with you. But I kind of like knowing that however much we piss each other off, all that’s going to happen is- this. You yelling at me, or sending pictures of rat-kings in the subways.”

“I could block you,” Logan said.

There was a long silence.

“Would that bother you?” Logan asked.

A longer silence.

“Yeah,” The Asshole said back.

Logan hesitated. His head was starting to clear. He looked at the still open bottle of vodka, but didn’t reach for it. “It would bother me too,” Logan admitted.

There was another long silence on the phone. All Logan could hear was the soft sound of breathing. He was suddenly aware he was fresh from the shower, sitting on his bed, a wet towel at his feet and no clothes on his body.

He yanked the phone away from his ear, disconnecting the call with a jab so hard it could’ve broken the screen.

There was long stretch of days with no messages. Logan couldn’t remember his school days, but there was something irritatingly adolescent about the whole situation to him, and he was pissed with himself for falling into it. He found himself actively looking for something, anything, that would annoy The Asshole, just so they could break the tension.

The Asshole sent him a picture of a particularly hideous truck mod, the bed comically lifted on disproportionately modest wheels, and Logan couldn’t bite back a grin as he texted back _what a jackoff_.

Things went back to normal, more or less. The messages were more frequent, and sometimes more than just provocation and response- they came dangerously close to conversations, at times. This was technically a “work phone” for Logan- he’d gotten it after being recruited for the HYDRA hunt, in order to coordinate with the team, and he felt oddly paranoid about someone knowing about the text thread. He found himself playing deliberately dull and uninteresting whenever Stark was around, acting the part of the soldier, and it seemed to keep him from nosing into his business.

He returned from a mission and found he’d received a voice message from The Asshole. Less than 10 seconds long, at least half of that rather shaky breathing.

“I’ll be unavailable for a few days,” the asshole said, sounding like he had congestion, then a tone at the end of the recording. Logan liked to think that the message was unnecessary- that he wouldn’t have even noticed a lack of messages or replies- but he reluctantly acknowledged that was untrue.

A days later, Logan felt his phone ringing in his back pocket and picked it up- sure enough, it was The Asshole’s number. He paused for a second, thumb hovering over the screen. It was one in the fuckin’ morning, and Logan was as buzzed as he ever got. He accepted the call.

“’Lo,” he said.

“Hey, you’re buddy needs you to pick him up,” a strange voice on the other end said. It was hard to make her out- some shitty dance music was drowning her out.

“The fuck are you doing on this line?” Logan asked.

“Hey, I just called the most recent number in his call history,” she said. “Listen, he’s black out fucking drunk in my bar and needs a ride, and I’d rather not leave him on the curb. Can you get him or nah?”

Logan thought about it- he really shouldn’t. For like ten different reasons. There was no way The Asshole would’ve ever asked him for a ride.

“Well, where is he?” Logan asked. The bartender gave him an address- in Manhattan, conveniently enough- and Logan rolled up in his truck about fifteen minutes later. He parked by the curb, turning his hazards on, and walked into the dive- a mutie dive, if the extra appendages were anything to go by.

This could be a problem, he realized, because there was no way he’d be able to recognize The Asshole on sight, and if he had to ask the bartender… speaking of, he saw her standing at the end of the bar. Not too far down was a slumped over figure, half falling off a stool. Welp, better than even money, Logan thought, and strode up to the figure with false confidence.

“Hey asshole,” Logan said, clapping a hand on his shoulder and shaking roughly- the unconscious man groaned, and shit, that _was_ The Asshole’s voice. Logan’s hand suddenly felt very hot. He turned towards the bartender, doing his best Don’t Fuck With Me face to put her off questioning him. She didn’t look impressed. “You got his phone?” Logan asked. She studied him for a minute, then pulled a shitty little flip phone out from behind the counter and handed it to him.

“Take care of him,” she said, “He shouldn’t’ve been alone tonight.”

Logan slid the burner phone into his back pocket, next to his own phone, and grunted. The Asshole, as it turned out, was a _tall_ sonofabitch, and frustratingly unresponsive to Logan’s shakes and slaps. He wound up using the bar stool to help maneuver The Asshole into an awkward fireman’s carry across his shoulders, his gangly limbs banging into a few chairs as they left the bar. Some antlered twink laughed and catcalled them as Logan maneuvered them out of the door.

Thankfully, no one had fucked with his truck since Logan had parked it, and he managed to pop open the door without dropping The Asshole, pushing it open the rest of the way with his knee. Awkwardly, he half-dropped half-pushed him into the passenger’s seat, slamming the door shut. He stalked around the front of his truck, pulling himself into the driver’s seat. He looked over- the dim bar, lit mostly by Christmas lights, had obscured his features. He grabbed The Asshole’s hair- longish, and brown- and turned the other man’s head toward himself. He wore a pair of thick, medical looking red specs that had pressed dark lines into his face from lying on the bar surface. Logan slid the specs off, tucking them in the front pocket of his jacket.

The Asshole was maybe thirty and dressed in dirty khakis and an ugly plaid shirt. Without his specs, you could see his high sharp cheek bones, though his jawline was hidden with scruff. His hands were pocked with numerous small burns and cuts, and there was a raw red scrape still healing on his chin, like he’d fallen and eaten pavement not too long ago. The yellowy cab light flicked off, and it was dark.

“Hey asshole,” Logan repeated, running his fingers through the other man’s stringy hair, “Where the hell can I take you?” Logan slapped him on the cheek. He got an incoherent sounding garble in response, and the asshole rolled away from him. Logan leaned over, tugging the lever on the far side of the passenger seat, reclining it backwards. He sat back up, turned the key. He drove, aimlessly, southbound, the two of them rocking slightly in the stop-start rhythm of traffic lights. Logan turned on the radio, letting the drone of Coast to Coast fill the silence. He stopped once, at a McDonald’s, and got two coffees, a bottle of water, and a couple of breakfast sandwiches. The Asshole slept through it all.

Logan wound up parking on a side street near some apartments in the Battery, looking out over the Hudson towards Jersey. He turned off the car, and the cab light turned on. He leaned over the sleeping man to grab the bag of food from the wheel well, and noticed the ugly flannel had ridden up, exposing a pale belly and a dark line of hair trailing down.

There was a dark line of scar tissue, as well, intersecting with the trail of hair, running up. Logan set the bag of food in his own wheel well, and reached over, fingers skimming over the incision line. His knuckles rucked the shirt up further, past his naval, over his solar plexus. At the very top of his chest, near his collar bones, the line veed off in two directions, like a Y. The cab light clicked off. Logan felt a wash of cold run over him- and speaking of, The Asshole felt cold as well, shivering and starting to stir.

“Hey, you finally up?” Logan asked.

A flare of red blinded him, and suddenly he felt much colder as cool night air filled the cab. The yellowy light of sodium lamps flooded through a hole about the size of a human head punched through the roof at the rear of the cab. The safety glass of the back window was spiderwebbed with jagged, precarious cracks.

“What the fuck?” Logan shouted, letting The Asshole knock his hand away.

“Where are my glasses?” The Asshole asked, struggling to sit up in the still reclined seat, one hand planted firmly across his eyes, protecting them.

“They’re in my jacket pocket, can you chill with the fucking lasers?” Logan said, adrenaline racing. The rational part of his brain sympathized with The Asshole’s reaction- Christ knew Logan had never had a good experience that started with waking up in an unknown location with a stranger- but the animal in him was riling to lash back.

“I will,” The Asshole said, speech slurred but frustratingly calm, “As soon as you _give me my glasses_.”

Logan pulled the specs out of his pocket and handed them over, breathing in roughly through his nose to turn off the alarm bells in his own head. The two of them looked at each other.

“Your voi- are you the Avengers’ fan?” The Asshole asked.

“The Av- is that what you call me in your head?” Logan demanded.

“Well what do you call me?” The Asshole demanded back. Logan felt his cheeks grow hot, and hoped it wasn’t visible in the orange light of the sodium lamp.

“None of your business,” Logan snarled.

“It’s _precisely_ my business,” The Asshole said, “Especially since you’ve _kidnapped me_.”

“I didn’t- the bartender called me!” Logan said, “I was your most recent call- which is sad, by the way.”

“Oh fuck off,” The Asshole muttered. “You- why were you groping me, anyhow?”

“I- your scar,” Logan muttered. “Your shirt rode up while we drove, and I-“ he bit his tongue, and grabbed the bag of food, thrusting it at The Asshole. “There’s cream and sugar in there if you want it, and coffee in the cupholder,” he said. “Water too. And food. Lean out the window if you’re gonna heave.”

The Asshole accepted the bag wordlessly, fumbling for the lever on the side of his seat to right the seat. He slumped against it, leaning his head against the window. He listlessly pulled out one of the breakfast sandwiches, and set the bag backdown in the wheel well, slumping in his seat. They could hear the wail of a siren a few blocks away- hardly unusual in the city, but Logan felt his heart skip a beat.

“Shit,” he said, starting the car, “Act cool.” He lurched around, pulling away from the curb and awkwardly turning in the dead end street to rejoin the flow of traffic. “Where are we headed anyways?”

“I don’t know where we are, so I really couldn’t tell you,” The Asshole said, surprisingly snippily for a man too drunk to keep his head upright.

“Hey look,” Logan said, “Hi! My name’s Logan! I’m a mutant too, and I’m _trying_ to help, dick, so where do you live?”

The Asshole snorted.

“Well where can I drop you off?” Logan asked. A cop car whirred behind them, and Logan tightened his grip on the wheel. They kept driving, listening to George Noory speculate about the possibility of X gene mutations in animals giving rise to the Chupacabra.

“I live in Newark,” The Asshole warned.

“So we’re going through the tunnel,” Logan said.

The other man squirmed. “I’m sorry about your truck.”

“Yeah, well, can’t say I blame ya,” Logan grunted.

“I can’t- without my glasses-“ The Asshole fell silent.

“Do they- cancel the lasers out?” Logan asked.

“They’re not lasers.”

“Whatthefuckever.”

“Yeah.”

“That must’ve been one hell of a trial and error process.”

“I don’t remember,” The Asshole said miserably.

Neither of them said anything for three traffic lights.

“I don’t remember some important shit either,” Logan admitted gruffly. “I don’t scar, but if I did. Reckon you and I might have some shit in common.”

The Asshole grunted.

“Something I can call you?” Logan asked. There was another long silence- so long Logan thought The Asshole might’ve passed back out.

“My mom named me Scott,” Scott said. He sounded choked up. Logan knew- your birthname could be loaded for a lot of mutants. He wondered if there was anyone who still called him by that name.

“Nice t’ meet ya properly,” Logan said.

“Logan,” Scott said- Logan looked over his shoulder, saw Scott smirk at him. “Just trying it out,” he said sleepily. “I could- if you have time- I can fix the hole in your roof.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Logan said.

“Let me fix your roof,” Scott insisted. “I feel bad.”

“Where exactly in Newark are we headed?” Logan asked, prevaricating. Scott rattled off an address that had Logan shifting in his seat, fishing for his phone- he inadvertently twisted the steering wheel, shaking them both. Scott yelped. “Oh don’t be so dramatic,” Logan grumbled.

“You’re a terrible driver,” Scott said.

“Fuck off,” Logan said, attempting to punch in the address with his thumb while cruising one handed. The truck weaved in its lane, and Scott threw his arms over his head, slumping in his seat and groaning. “I was serious before,” Logan warned. “Puke out the window, or I’ll kick your skinny ass.” Logan rolled the window down slightly. Scott mumbled incoherently, and seemed to lapse back into unconsciousness. The coffee was rapidly cooling, and Logan finished his off. They drove through the Holland Tunnel, the engine noise of other cars echoing and eerie and loud with the hole in the roof. The smell of exhaust was noxious to Logan’s nose, and he was grateful when they emerged back out the other side.

It was another twenty minutes, periodically squinting at his smartphone screen, winding back up to the north side of Newark, through residential streets to a rough looking garage, with a large stack of tires in the front. Logan parked in front of the garage doors, turned off his engine, and slapped the back of his hand into Scott’s chest.

“Wake up,” Logan said, but was interrupted by Scott flailing out at him- though thankfully, this time with no “not lasers”. “Hey hey hey,” Logan hushed, “It’s me.”

“Wha’s’yer name again?” Scott asked, breathing hard.

“Logan. Look out the window, is this the right place?”

“Yeah, it’s my place,” Scott said. He unwrapped the cold sandwich, still sitting on his lap, and began to methodically eat the congealed egg and cheese. “Gimme a minute to sober up,” he said, “And I’ll get to work on the roof.”

Logan couldn’t check Scott’s eyes, but he guaranteed that was an underestimation of his intoxication, and he was tired as shit himself. “Yeah, fuck that. How much did you have to drink?”

“Twenty dollars worth,” Scott said, failing to specify of _what_ , though Logan would bet well whisky by the smell of him. He neatly folded up the sandwich wrapper and tucked it into the bag, pulling out a handful of sugar packets. He took the paper lid off the other cup of coffee and carefully added all the packets he’d pulled out. “For the energy,” he explained, “I prefer it black.” That was fucking drunk logic if Logan had ever heard it. Scott started to drink the lukewarm coffee, swallowing but never pulling it away from his lips. Logan put his keys in his front pocket and hopped out of the cab. He paced around, opened the passenger door and looked at Scott expectantly.

“Well I ain’t carrying you again,” Logan said.

“How’d you manage that?” Scott asked.

“Fuck off.”

Scott twisted in the seat, slowly lowering his legs out of the cab onto the uneven concrete of the drive. He wavered uncertainly, empty paper cup still clutched in one hand, and Logan reached out, grabbing Scott’s hand and slinging his arm over his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around his waist, hooking a thumb through the beltloop of his khakis to steer.

“C’mon drunkie,” Logan said, “How do we get into this place?”

Scott leaned over, nearly losing his balance as he fucked around with a doormat, pulling a key out from under it.

“Christ, are you _trying_ to get rolled?”

“There are six people staying here,” Scott said, then enunciated with great effort, “And property is theft, Logan.”

Logan just about told the stumbling man to fuck off again, but Scott opened the office door at the side of the garage, stumbling across the threshold. The room was dark, but Logan could dimly make out many sprawled figures on the ground.

“Cyke?” a young, sleepy voice called out.

“Go t’ sleep Temp,” Scott said. “C’mon, we gotta go around them to get my tools,” he said, but Logan dug his grip into his hip.

“Yeah, let’s lie down and finish sobering up first,” Logan said.

“You c’n have my spot,” the young sleepy voice said from their feet, shifting around. “This a new recruit?”

“I broke his car,” Scott said. The young woman padded around in the dark, eliciting a distinctly male yelp as she presumably tripped over someone. Another voice incoherently shouted for them all to be quiet.

Logan tried to lower Scott toward the ground, but it was Scott’s turn to tighten his grip around his shoulder, the paper cup dropping to the ground as he grabbed at Logan with both hands, over balancing them and pulling Logan to the ground with him. Their fall was broken by a mattress- and thank Christ, it was an old spring one, rather than an air mattress that Logan’s weight would’ve destroyed. It already sagged beneath them, but Scott seemed to take no notice. When Scott tried to get up, Logan grabbed him back, pulling him down.

“Yeah, c’mon, lie down a minute,” Logan said. Scott was rigid in his arms, and Logan could feel his heart pounding. “It’s fine, c’mon. It’s just me. Lie down.”

Logan only meant to stay there till Scott had fallen asleep himself. Only meant to close his eyes to rest them after over an hour of night driving. He held the still resisting Scott down, breathing rhythmically to encourage the maniac to calm down and go the fuck to sleep already.

He woke up to the ear splitting grind of metal on metal. He groaned irritably, and fished his phone out of his back pocket. It was almost dead, and it was five in the morning. Scott was no longer lying down next to him. The office was illuminated through the open door leading into the garage, revealing a warren of egg crate foam and air mattresses, grungy looking young people sprawled on them, still asleep. Books and papers littered the available surfaces, as well as a mixed pile of clothes and belongings on the floor. Logan picked a path through the obstacle course, treading into the garage. His head throbbed from too little sleep.

The garage was occupied by a wall of equipment and a large tool drawer, with two half-modded motorcycles in the middle, with two work tables fitted in and a clutter of odds and ends and parts and metal fit in wherever they could. Against one wall was a mini fridge with a microwave and coffee maker stacked on top of it. The coffee maker was still half full. The screech of a metal grinder sounded again, hurting Logan’s ears.

Scott was standing in the bed of the truck, one knee braced on the roof, grinding down the edges of the hole he’d punched.

“I told you not to bother,” Logan called. Scott stopped grinding, looking up at him.

“I ate the other sandwich,” he said, “So I hope you weren’t saving it.”

“Are you seriously trying to patch a roof at the crack of dawn?” Logan asked.

“Well I won’t be ready to start patching till mid-morning,” Scott said. “Need to cut a patch down to size, and all that.”

He was sober now- the tenor of his voice was as Logan remembered over the phone. There was something awkward about last night, now that they were both fully awake.

“You don’t have to,” Logan said, and added, “You don’t owe me shit. It was my own fault.”

“I lost control,” Scott said.

“Yeah, ‘cause I took off your safety glasses,” Logan said. “And I- startled you.”

Scott looked down at the grinder in his hands.

“Yeah, well,” Scott said. “I was drunk. Too drunk. I should’ve never let myself get like that.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“You don’t _know_ that.”

“You don’t strike me as the kind of guy to get that fucked up without good reason.”

“There’s no good reason for that kind of behavior. It was irresponsible and indulgent.”

“ _Christ_ but you’re an asshole,” Logan swore. A trace of a smirk flitted across Scott’s mouth- little _shit_ , Logan thought- and he swung his leg down, hopping off the bed.

“I need to get a good patch sized,” Scott said. “I’ve got a good piece of steel, just need to trim it with a plasma cutter.” He walked past Logan, their shoulders brushing deliberately. Logan followed him, walking past him to pour coffee into a paper cup from a stash next to the coffee maker.

“At least use a face shield,” Logan said.

“I will,” Scott said, “Just didn’t want to bother earlier. My eyes are protected, and that’s all that matters.”

“I’d beg to differ,” Logan muttered and Scott looked up at him sharply. His mouth puckered a little, and he looked away, turning towards the clutter of metal and equipment.

“The kids’ll be up soon,” Scott said, “They’re all mutants, so you don’t have to worry about keeping secrets from them. And it‘d do them good. To talk to another mutant who made it to adulthood. Even if he is an Avengers’ fan.”

“Fuck you too Slim,” Logan said.

“The kids’ll be up already because you guys can’t be quiet,” one of them said irritably, stumbling out of the office towards the coffee pot. He was a good looking kid, about 20, with wiry dark hair and an honest face. “Swear to god, this ‘early to rise’ shit will be the first thing to go in the revolution.”

“What revolution would that be?” Logan asked. The kid raised an eyebrow at him.

“ _The_ revolution,” he said, “Yo, Cyke, who is this quisling?”

“Do you even know what that means?” Logan said.

“Fuck you buddy,” the kid said, and thrust a hand out to Logan. “I’m Morph.”

“Wolverine,” Logan said shaking his hand. Yeah, this didn’t seem like a Christian names sort of joint. The name didn’t seem to mean anything to Morph, but Scott’s clattering of metal and tools stilled suspiciously. Logan half turned towards him, gauging for signs of recognition. Despite his best efforts, he was pretty sure there were more than a few people who knew what his callsign was when working, especially since he started working for the Avengers. “Is that Cyke with C for Cycle or with an S for Sike?” he asked. Morph cackled next to him.

“Cyke for cycle!”

“It’s short for Cyclops, actually,” Scott muttered, “The woman who took me in as a kid was real well-read, like myths.”

Strangely, that seemed to sober up Morph, who quieted down and drank his coffee. “How was the-“ Morph flicked his eyes to Logan, then back to Scott, “Y’know?”

“I wasn’t allowed to stay,” Scott said. He sounded congested again, and he coughed. “Masque has won the leadership challenge. She- doesn’t feel there’s any place for Eloi in the movement anymore.”

“That’s bullshit,” Morph swore, “You should’ve challenged her-“

“I wasn’t going to start a fight at a funeral, for God’s sake,” Scott snapped. He stalked over to the stacks of sheet metal, flipping through them, pulling out a smaller square.

“You should’ve,” Morph repeated. “She would’ve loved it.”

Scott cleared off a work bench, laying the square on it. A plasma cutter was already plugged into a rolling work cart nearby. Scott looked up at Logan, and paused a moment. He looked back at Morph. “Yeah,” Scott agreed, “You’re right. She would’ve.” He walked past them both, causing a chorus of groans from the sleepers in the office, and came back with- thank Christ- some PPE, including a thick canvas coat, work gloves, and a face shield. The face shield was clearly an awkward fit, given his thick glasses, and gave Logan a faceless, but somehow still bitchy, look.

“The things I do for you,” Scott said, slightly muffled by the mask. He powered up the plasma cutter, and Logan turned back to Morph, smirking a little.

“So how do you know Cyke?” Morph asked.

“Fuck you buddy,” Logan said, sipping his coffee, “Do you have a phone charger?”

The other kids woke up, grouching and moaning about the racket Scott was making, which Scott studiously ignored. They were a motley sort of crew, evidently used to drop-ins as they took little notice of Logan once it was established that “he was with Cyke”, and they fought and bickered over the shared pile of clothing in the middle of the office, fought over the stash of granola bars, bickered and bitched as they waited for the second pot of coffee to brew. None of them were visibly mutated, Logan couldn’t help but notice. Although-

“Wait, where’s Morph?” Logan asked.

“I’m right here, dude,” a young African-American man said- and that wasn’t Morph, that was Triage, wasn’t it, but no, Triage was standing next to Tempus, that was-

“Ah, Morph,” Logan said, the name clicking.

“Yep,” Morph said, popping his p.

A car pulled up around midmorning, and Egg (“Do NOT call me Goldballs, please, I’m begging you guys, I want a new name-“) went out and patched the tire. The suspiciously named Hijack consulted with Scott and started working on finishing modding the exhaust system on one of the bikes, that sort of customization seeming to be the main source of income in the shop. Out on the drive now, Scott had shifted over to proper welding, tacking the patch in place, slowly working his way around the seam. The kids wandered in and out of the shop, buying smokes and soda pop from the bodega down the block.

What Logan gathered, in drips and drabs of indiscrete chatter, was that Scott was running some kind of halfway house for runaway mutants, and the kids who remained considered themselves to be some kind of revolutionary anarchist cell- one on tense terms with another cell, one who Scott had ties to. There was chatter about moving- about leaving the state.

Logan watched Scott, still welding. They’d talked for a quarter of a year without knowing names or faces. He’d never really thought about whether or not he’d ever meet The Asshole. But now- having seen Scott- he imagined him leaving. Most people Logan knew left- or he left them. And he rarely met people twice.

Scott stood up to his full height in the bed of the truck, flipping the face shield up. The afternoon sun cast a dark shadow across his face. He stretched, working the kinks out of his spine and neck, lifting his arms over his head. His coat was a little too short in the torso for him, riding up with his shirt. He hopped out of the bed of the truck, setting his welder down in the rolling cart, looping up the extension cord as he walked it back into the shop.

“I just need to grind down the edges of the weld and apply primer-“

Logan seized Scott’s wrist.

“Don’t worry bub,” he said, “We’re good.”

Scott looked down at Logan’s grip, but didn’t move to break it.

“I feel bad about it,” Scott said. Logan shifted his grip, encircling the other man’s wrist more fully. His thumb pressed against Scott’s pulse point.

“We’re good,” Logan said firmly. Scott’s mouth twisted.

“Don’t go all butch on me,” Scott bitched.

“Fuck you,” Logan said, but he smiled as he said it. Scott took his face shield off, setting it on the cart, and pulled his wrist from Logan’s grasp, removing his gloves.

“Let’s go take a look at the truck,” Scott said. He subtly tilted his head towards the chattering kids under the stoop of the shop and loped back over to the truck. Logan followed him, stood close, boxing him in against the driver’s side door with the width of his frame. Scott huffed, irritated, running a hand through his hair. They stood, regarding each other in silence.

“The kids are making sounds about leaving,” Logan said.

“The kids need to learn about loose lips and ships.”

“Yeah, they’re remarkably trusting, all things considered,” Logan said. “You’ve done a good job with them.”

Scott looked down and away, shifting in place.

“We were- when I was a kid, younger then them, I had to run off. My powers manifested, and I- I had to run off. I wound up- with- a bad person. Who did not do a good job with me. I wound up in hiding, in the tunnels under the city. And I was lucky,” Scott said, licking his lips, his recitation low and monotone and tightly controlled, “I was lucky because I met the Morlocks. And Callisto, who gave me my name. And she liked me- looked out for me- and after a few years I went up to the surface. I could pass as human, so I got a job, earned money to support the others. Got training, saved up, bought tools- started leasing this place a few years back. She and I- it worked out. We were able to help a lot of young people. I take the ones who can pass, we support the ones who can’t who lived with her and-“ He sighed heavily. “But she died. Breast cancer, of all things, but she couldn’t get treatment because,” he gestured towards his face, “And because of her principles. And her successor wants nothing to do with us, and- there are so many mutants in this country. More than just New York. Morph’s Texan, Triage from Michigan- all these kids made it here from out of state, because they heard there was a place for peoplelike us. But we need to give people a chance where they are.”

“The kids talk like you’re gonna pull some Magneto shit, like this is the sixties,” Logan said. Scott smiled tightly, shrugged.

“The kids like to say ‘Magneto is Right’- one kid that stayed with us had it on a t-shirt. Had to send him down to the Morlocks, no sense of discretion at all,” Scott laughed a little at the memory.

“So you’re headed…?”

“Everywhere. Up and down the country, finding mutants who need help. The shop, my equipment- I’ve already got an offer on the lot. Reckon I’ll bring the kids with me till I know they can handle themselves, then send them out to cover more area.” Scott paused. He leaned back against the car door, looking down at Logan. “You could come with us,” he said.

“I can’t,” Logan said, “I have a job.”

“Yeah, killing people for some billionaire boy’s club-“

“-I prefer the term hunting Nazis and international terrorists, but sure-“

“You could be saving lives- mutant lives, kids who are isolated and scared and being abused,” Scott said. “Come with me, Logan.” He grabbed his hand.

“We do nothing but piss each other off.”

“We trust each other,” Scott said. He said it with confidence, like no explanation or examples were necessary. He was still holding Logan’s hand.

“When I- last night. I didn’t mean to do that,” Logan said.

“I haven’t- I’ve never let someone touch me like that,” Scott said. Logan read the implication in his words.

“I’m sorry then.”

“I would’ve,” Scott said. “If I’d been awake. If I’d known it was you. I’d’ve let you.”

Logan wasn’t sure what to say to that. Scott was still holding his hand. With his free hand, Scott unzipped the coat. He undid the top few buttons of his ugly flannel- the same one from last night, soaked through with the smell of whisky and ozone and sweat. He pressed Logan’s hand against his breastbone, where the incision line split. His skin was clammy and cool in the fall air against Logan’s hand, his heart pounding steadily underneath it.

He did not repeat his request for Logan to come with him.

“I’m doing good,” Logan said, “With the Avengers. I’m making a difference.”

Scott leaned back. Logan dropped his hand, flexing it slightly but not wiping it against his jean leg. He wanted him, Logan realized- he _wanted_ Scott.

“I’ll meet you,” Logan said. “Anywhere. Give me a call, let me know where you are, tell me if you need help.”

“You’ll be busy,” Scott said.

“Fucking call me, Scott,” Logan said. “And I’ll meet you.”

Scott nodded, and reached out, grabbing Logan’s shoulders. He pushed and pulled, spinning them around- Logan let himself be manhandled till he was leaning against the door. Scott leaned in, jerked his chin up.

“You need to go?” he asked.

“Go to hell,” Logan said, digging his fingers into Scott’s hair, puling him into a kiss. The kids started hollering from the stoop, and Logan instinctively pulled one hand off Scott’s hair, flipping them off- and when he pulled back from the kiss, saw Scott doing the same, blushing a little. Logan smirked, and pulled him back in for another kiss.

Weeks passed. Logan still got pictures. Pictures of the sky, of weird looking dogs, and young people- some he recognized, some he didn’t, all looking tired and worn and happy. Sometimes, it made him mad- thinking that he could be there, he could’ve gone with Scott. That he’d wanted to.

He pulled his phone out, paused. Went to the sink and washed his hands, with soap, picking around his cuticles. He took a picture, a thumbs up. Logan thought about what his life could be, and looked forward to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Set in a stirfry of movie and comic canon. One detail in the prompt ("Scott is not an X-Men") sent me into an absolute Pepe Silvia style frenzy, and for the sake of my sanity and preventing hyperfixation on side characters, the X-Men cast had to be significantly pared back.
> 
> Happy Christmas Oak! I hope you enjoy this fic, and have a wonderful holiday!


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